Performing in the Aisle, Empty Except for One

He opens his mouth in the deep,behind the concrete curtains, pullsup the gutturals with serrated tongs.No one wants to hear this kindof pain and call it song. No one signsup to witness a performance that lasts

an endless train ride long. This train spansthe system, Euclid to Uranus, the infiniteexpanse. Put a coin in the Kangol if he singsit on key, if your skin turns to feathers,then molts between stops. In the nextcar, you lean on the door, ever next

to exit. You think you’ve heard this songbefore. You think you know this dissonance.Wasn’t he the one who used to singwith that group that had that one hit?That one hit, then two, then something likea string tied to a kite tail that fails to catch air.

Places I've Been

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